PART 1

“Take care of the old woman. We went to rest because you were born to serve.”

That’s what the note I found on the kitchen table said, held up by a grimy salt shaker, when I returned from a business trip at half past eleven at night.

My name is Marisol Hernández, and I had been married to Daniel Robles for five years. Five years paying bills, food, medicine, and even his mother Elvira’s whims, while he changed jobs like he changed shirts and complained that life never gave him opportunities.

The house was silent. No TV on, no smell of dinner, no Doña Elvira’s voice yelling that I was late. The patio light was off, which was odd, because she always said that “in this neighborhood you couldn’t trust anyone, not even your shadow.”

I read the note again.

Daniel and his mother had gone “to the beach to clear their heads.” And they ordered me to take care of “the old woman” in the back room: Doña Consuelo, Daniel’s grandmother, an eighty-year-old woman who, according to them, no longer understood anything since a stroke.

I felt my legs go weak.

If they had left in the morning, Doña Consuelo had been alone all day. Without water. Without food. Without anyone bothering her.

I ran to the back room, and when I opened the door, I was hit by a sour smell, the smell of confinement and neglect. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn and an old bucket next to the bed. On a thin mattress, Doña Consuelo seemed to be barely breathing. Her lips were chapped, her skin dry, her hands cold.

“Oh, little virgin…” I whispered, kneeling beside her.

I went to get warm water, moistened her lips with a small spoon, and cleaned her face with a towel. I cried silently, not from exhaustion, but from anger. I sent Daniel almost my entire salary for his grandmother’s “special food” and “expensive medicine.” And there she was, lying there as if she were a burden.

I took out my cell phone to order a taxi and take her to the hospital.

Then a bony hand grabbed my wrist.

It wasn’t a weak grip. It was firm. Precise.

I turned upside down, frozen.

Doña Consuelo’s eyes were open. But they weren’t the vacant eyes of a sick old woman. They were lively, sharp, intelligent eyes.

“Don’t take me to the hospital, Marisol,” she said in a low but clear voice. “Help me get my revenge.”

I felt my blood run cold.

—Doña Consuelo… do you… do you understand me?

She squeezed my wrist tighter.

—They have no idea who I really am.

Before I could answer, he pointed to an old piece of furniture in the corner.

—Move it. Lift the board off the floor.

I obeyed, trembling. Beneath the woodwork was an antique, carved box, hidden like a buried secret in that house. Opening it, I found small jars, documents, and a black remote control.

Doña Consuelo drank a few drops from one of the bottles. Ten minutes later she sat up on her own.

Alone.

The woman, whom everyone thought was paralyzed, sat on the bed with her back straight and a look that pierced me.

—For three years I pretended to be finished—she told me—. Three years waiting to see who would take care of me and who wanted me dead.

I couldn’t even breathe.

Then he pressed the control.

The wall of the room slowly opened.

Behind it was a secret room filled with screens, cameras, and recordings of the entire house.

Doña Consuelo looked at me with a terrible calmness.

—Now you’re going to see what your husband did with your money… and with my life.

And when the first recording appeared on the screen, I understood that what was coming couldn’t be true… but it was only just beginning.

PART 2

The screen showed the living room two weeks earlier. Doña Elvira was sitting in the armchair, eating potatoes and watching a soap opera. Doña Consuelo appeared in her wheelchair, motionless, by the window.

Suddenly, Elvira stood up, approached her, and kicked one of the wheels.

“Useless old woman,” he spat. “All you do is swallow money. I wish you’d go to be with God already.”

I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t scream.

Then I saw her spit into a bowl of cold soup and push it towards the old woman.

—Come on, eat. That’s more than you deserve.

I felt nauseous. That woman, who spoke of “family values” in front of the neighbors, treated Doña Consuelo worse than an animal.

But the worst came later.

Doña Consuelo changed the video. It was from three days ago, when I had gone to Monterrey for work. Daniel entered the house with a young, well-groomed woman with long nails and a tight dress.

I recognized her immediately: Brenda, the “distant cousin” he said came from Guadalajara.

They sat down on the sofa, embracing each other. Daniel kissed her neck.